The Rapunzels ONC 2024

1: Why Do Caged Birds Sing?

We are often silent about our pain. When those that caused it eventually kill us, they will say we liked it.

I was twelve years old when God died. It was the day Tyrone Grimstone, my father, killed him for me.

I remember my father's fist was full of my hair as he pulled me to his screaming mouth. His knuckles caused pain as they pressed against my temple. In the grip of his other hand was mine. He was forcing my palm against a lit flame. All because I had refused to crawl to him like a dog when he'd asked me to.

When I called him a monster, he brought his unshaven face to my ear and uttered, I will become as monstrous as I must. Those words echo, vibrate, and rage monstrously inside me still. 

His anger was a hammer smashing against my brain. Inside, pieces of me broke. Whatever had not shattered wilted and became dust. I barely remember my burning flesh because him loathing me, and me saying nothing else, hurt even more.

My room is a cage, as is this existence. I am a lark whose wings have never been allowed to soar.

Sitting on my bed, book in my grasp, I sometimes smell burnt skin. The scent floats around me. It escapes the pages before me as if it were a poem I wrote so long ago.

Why do caged birds sing? Do they sing because they believe they'll find their freedom, or is it a requiem of hope slowly dying?

I place the paperback down. The pages inside have been scribbled over in black sharpie - every single one of them. I'll never know what was on the author's mind. The only thing I have to admire is the cover. The dark profile of a young woman rests against a backdrop of tangerine. She seems to be my age. Eighteen or nearly so. Perhaps her birthday is soon, just like mine – a child of spring, of fickle storms that inconveniently show up at the worst possible time. I wonder what her home is like. Has she ever seen the outside world?

There is a window in my bedroom. It stares bored and bitter at the vastness of my family's grand estate. Once, when I was younger, I walked around the plot of land in a full circle. It took me an hour.

Mother says the nearest neighbour is too far away for us ever to meet. Not that we'd like that sort of folks. She says their name is Morginstar and they are terrible people who shoot wolves for sport.

I have never seen a wolf, but at times, I can hear them cry. Late at night, their howls are a morbid melody. Whenever I ask any of my sisters if they have heard them, they shake their heads and tell me all the wolves have long since gone extinct.

Beyond my window is a grove of orange trees. Beyond them is green grass and flowers. Pansies with delicate petal faces dot the lawn, there are purple and pink ones, and at times there are even yellow ones as bright as the sun. Some summers, I can see butterfly weeds, maybe even a daisy or two. My sisters and I love the way they look. But not the red ones. Never the red ones.

Red means something horrid is going to happen. It's a bad omen -- the Devil poking his fingers out of the earth. Red flowers are not allowed on the Grimstone grounds. So, whenever they sprout up, it's my, Lulu's, and Lexi's duty to pull them out as quickly as we can – roots and all so they never grow back. Once we have collected the offending flowers, we dig a hole and bury them all. 

My sisters always leave to wash up after our task, but I linger and wonder what would happen were we to let the whole yard be covered in red. Would the Devil really rise from below?

Mother and Father say red is the colour of death, of blood, of rage, of terrible things men do to women. None of us ever wear red.

A gust of wind bursts through my open window and reaches for me. Strands of my dark hair whip across my face and I brush them away. My sisters and I all have long hair and that is why it's impossible and unsafe to leave the estate. 

We have the curse mother says, the Rapunzel hair curse. We have been told if anyone with long hair were to leave their home, they'd be devoured by whatever beasts lived beyond the high walls. 

There are days I worry I'll be trapped here forever rather than fret about a monster, but then I come to my senses. It's safe here, even though... it's...not.

I wish my hair brushed against my ears like mother's does. She says hers is short and my sister and my hair is long because she is not cursed. Curses befall evil children is what my father likes to remind us. Maybe that's why I'm covered in bruises—ones to match Lulu's and Lexi's.

Rising, I head to the window and poke my head out. My torso follows. I don't stop until half of me is out and my hipbone presses against the pane. I'm somewhere between falling and flying. I close my eyes and hang my head. Waterfalls are cascading before me.

In the caress of the wind, I feel resilient. Defiant. I lower my body. I am a boneless doll. I bring my arms to dangle by the side of my head. Fingertips reach for whatever is below. I remain there until there's a buzzing in my ears that soon turns into the sound of wings against cage.